


The Nonsensical Satisfaction of Absent Touch

by YdrittE



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Bottom!Sephiroth, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Knifeplay, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Other, Sexual Tension, Sub!Sephiroth, Voyeurism, Whipping, ukeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YdrittE/pseuds/YdrittE
Summary: Sephiroth has an arrangement with a certain someone.





	The Nonsensical Satisfaction of Absent Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome back to "what the actual fuck did I just write". Enjoy!

He has discarded his clothes, laid them out neatly on the chair in the corner so they won’t get in the way. His partner is waiting patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, until he gets into position and signals that he’s ready. He stretches his body, pretending to be unaware of the pair of eyes that watches him, that drinks in the curves and muscles and every detail. All so very familiar.

Finally he kneels, puts his hands flat on the ground next to his thighs, and bows his head, letting the silver curtain of hair fall forward to cover his face. He is ready.

His partner gets up, the springs of the mattress creaking quietly as the weight previously placed on them disappears, and moves towards him. The steps are barely more than a whisper on the carpet, slow and leisurely and calculated. Sephiroth keeps his eyes on the floor, away from his partner, and lets the steps circle around him once, twice, inspecting his naked form. 

The first time they did this he was nervous, painfully aware of his nudity. He shied away from everything he was submitted to, scared of the vulnerability that would come with it. It had taken some time to coax him out of his shell, to be actually able to do what their arrangement entailed. _He_ was the one who took the first step, after all, not his partner.

They exchanged contact details, and met in one of the many small bars strewn across the upper parts of the city. Found each other in the crowd, and shook hands. That was the first and only time they touched, and even then his partner wore gloves.

There is no need to touch him. There never is. There are other ways to drive him crazy. And this one does not _want_ to touch Sephiroth either. The ultimate desire is to hover one’s hand just a fraction above his skin, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to let it ghost across his body and make him shiver without ever breaking the unspoken rule the pair has decided upon.

There will be no touching. He will not move unless instructed to. All he is required to do is react to what is done to him, in whatever way he feels is honest.

That is all.

It is a strange arrangement, truly. One would think there would at least be a sexual aftermath, after this intricate foreplay is done. But there isn’t. This one is not interested in that; only wants to see, to observe his pleasure and his pain. What he does with this easily exciteable body of his afterwards is not his partner’s concern.

But even for the partner it is a struggle, every time, to keep the distance, to not give into temptation. His skin looks so soft, white and smooth like silk. What would it feel like to the touch? This one will never know, does not want to let oneself know.

They need tools for this exercise, neatly laid out on a small table provided by the hotel. The employees here have learned by now how to prepare the room. And to not ask questions. _Never_ ask questions.

The knife comes first, as it always does. It glides across his back without breaking the skin, drawing invisible, intricate little patterns. So unmarked and perfect. There is nothing more pleasing than to destroy that perfection.

The opening cut is a small one, to test the waters. Sephiroth doesn’t even flinch. He’s been prepared for that one, has been expecting it. No way around it, since it’s become somewhat of a ritual. The next one is longer, still shallow, and the slightest tensing of Sephiroth’s muscles tells the partner that it has begun. A few small drops of blood trickle from the wound, down his exposed back. Eyes follow them hungrily, playing with the thought of licking them up and tasting him, but staying motionless, controlled. This is control, and it will not be broken.

Cut after cut, some small, some big, but all of them shallow, and soon the picture being drawn on his white skin is starting to take form. It is a picture of chaos, seemingly random and confusing, yet created with the utmost care. It is art, if only to the person making it. He is panting at that point, muscles shaking with the effort of holding still and the cold wetness of blood, as the movements of his partner send little breaths of air across the sensitive, violated skin.

The blade suddenly cuts deeper, and he cries out low in his throat. A chuckle behind him tells him his partner is pleased. Another lash from the knife, deeper again, and he twists away from it involuntarily. The punishment for his violation of the rules come quickly, a third cut, long and deep and all across his back. Then the knife retreats.

There is shuffling behind him, the first tool being put away and the next one being prepared. He waits until he is quietly told to raise his hands and hold them together over his head. He obeys, and feels leather wrap around them, binding him. Then he is pulled forward by the wrists, forced to eventually fall onto his elbows as the rest of the leather rope is bound around the bottom of the bedpost.

This part is also familiar to a degree, and so he does as he knows his partner wants, spreading his legs despite the lingering reluctance. He does not like this position very much, still too self-conscious of his body, too uncomfortable with showing off his most intimate parts to another person in this way. While he was on his knees at least his hair gave him a semblance of being able to cover up his nudity. Now that is no longer possible.

There is silence behind him, telling him that his partner is watching, staring, waiting. He knows where those eyes will inevitably be drawn. He can almost _feel_ them. The hands may never touch him, but the eyes surely do, and they know neither shame nor gentleness. They do what his partner’s body cannot. They _take_ him. They look, and imagine all the filthy things that could be done to him.

Once he got to hear what the fantasies look like, when the partner was in the mood to talk, and since that day this part of the arrangement has become even more uncomfortable than it already is. Because now he is part of the fantasies playing in the other’s head, knows what his partner sees when looking at his naked backside, his erection, the pale skin of his thighs. He can feel how the watching eyes turn into rough hands that grip him and a cock rubbing at his entrance, and a knee that nudges his legs apart further. Into hands yanking his hair and fingers closing over his throat, and into come splattering any or all parts of his body.

His cock stirs in interest at the thoughts. He tries to breathe steadily, wait for the next tool to come into play. But there is only silence behind him, and he can still feel the eyes crawling over his skin. His arousal can’t have gone unnoticed. Does his partner know what caused it?

He licks his lips, wondering whether he should ask, but the soft voice behind him interrupts him before he can.

“I do know” he is told “And if it does not go against your part in the arrangement, I would be glad to see what you make of the fantasy”

Sephiroth feels himself blush. What he makes of the fantasy… he thinks he understands what this will lead to. He hesistantly closes his eyes, exhaling slowly to make himself relax, concentrating on the feeling of looks touching his body, and tries to imagine what might be going on in his partner’s mind.

He envisions the looming presence of another man – because it’s always a man in the fantasy, he’s sure of that – behind him, some faceless figure that could be anyone, with his cock hard and leaking precome, just waiting to sink himself into Sephiroth’s waiting ass. How it would feel for it to slowly press inside, fill him up and stretch his entrance _just_ enough, almost to the point of pain. His lower body feels uncomfortably hot, the little ring of muscles constricting in anticipation of a pressure that won’t come. He moves his hips backwards slightly, and lets out a whine. If he just had a little bit of pressure, he could pretend… 

He continues rocking his hips, making desperate little sounds and feeling his hole twitching. It feels obscene, to be begging with his body like this. But he wants pressure, or touch, or _anything_. They don’t use _those_ kinds of tools in their sessions, but if his partner would just untie his hands so he could touch himself, or even _touch him_ -

He stops, breathing heavily, and looks over his shoulder, the words of plea on his lips.

The other is sitting in one of the armchairs, but no longer relaxed and distant, and instead leaning forward with an expression of intense hunger painted across that normally so calm face. Lips are drawn back to reveal teeth, eyes bright and staring shamelessly. It’s a feral look, but Sephiroth can’t help but think that it suits this one. He’s never seen this side of his partner.

“Will you touch me?” he finally manages to ask, and feels a stab of embarrassment at how rushed and needy he sounds.

His partner stares at him for a few long seconds, no longer fixated on his cock and asshole, but instead looking what feels like straight into his soul. He sees something harden behind those eyes.

“No” his partner says, deadly quiet.

Sephiroth feels his stomach drop as he watches this one stand up, walk over to the table with their tools on it, and gliding fingers across them as if trying to decide which one to use. He doesn’t want to go back to the pain yet. He wants more of _this_.

“I need-“ he tries to say, but his partner grips one of the tools with movements so fluid and fast it’s almost a blur, and the next thing he knows is a hard crack and a sudden lash of pain right across his backside.

The whip. It’s _the whip_.

He’s not even given time to recover, no softer strikes to warm him up and get him used to the bite. Instead it’s one after another, fast and hard and drawing blood. When the first lash hits the soft skin on his inner thighs he yelps, and soon starts begging for this one to stop. He apologizes, promises not to ask to be touched again, offers to let his partner watch him masturbate instead, he’s sorry, he didn’t mean it, he knows the arrangement, he _knows_. He forgot himself, forgot the most important rule.

The bite of the whip suddenly stops, and when he tentatively turns his head he sees that his partner is breathing heavily through gritted teeth, gripping the handle hard enough to let white bone shine through the thin skin of the knuckles. This is control. Control will not be given up.

“What is the most important rule?” he is asked, and answers without even having to think.

“No direct touch, ever”

His partner nods, and starts rolling up the whip. “At least you remembered”

He waits silently, knowing it’s not his place to speak, feeling the wounds on his backside burn. It dims his arousal quite a bit, but part of him still hopes this meeting can be salvaged. If his partner would untie him from the bedpost, and let him use his fingers to get himself off… he’d let this one watch, even… lie on his back on the bed and spread his legs nicely to give a good show…

A chuckle pulls him out of it, and he notices with embarrassment that he’s gotten hard again.

“Eager for more, are we?” his partner asks quietly, but he hears the little smile without needing to see it. Instead of answering he thrusts his hips and whines.

“I’ll take that as a yes”

He feels a sudden touch between his shoulderblades, running down his back all the way to his entrance. It’s solid, with a rounded tip, and feels like hard leather…

“The whip” his partner murmurs, and circles the instrument around his hole slowly, drawing closer and closer to the centre. It touches the ring of muscles, simply resting there for a moment – and disappears.

Sephiroth lets out a sound of protest, but after a bit of rummaging about behind him the handle returns, this time slick with what must be lube. He pushes back, relaxing his muscles to invite his partner to continue. Another quiet chuckle, and then _finally_ pressure. It’s not ideal, too slim and of unorganic shape, but right now it doesn’t matter because it’s inside him, rubbing his inner walls, and he wants _more_. He lets out a high-pitched moan and bucks his hips, and is rewarded with a hard shove right against his prostate. For a moment he sees stars. He moves frantically, begs for more, harder, faster, and whimpers this one’s name, clenching around the handle. His partner never makes a sound, but decides to indulge him, and it doesn’t take long until Sephiroth shudders and comes with a cry.

He tries to calm his breathing for several long minutes, thighs quivering from the strain. The partner has pulled out the whip handle and gone to the adjacent bathroom to wash it off under running water, and coming back throws him a strange look before moving over to the little table and setting down the whip. Next the leather rope around Sephiroth’s wrists is finally removed, allowing him to sit up and stretch his sore limbs. He looks over at this one.

“Do you- uh… want me to-?” he tries to ask, not even sure what he is asking. But his partner merely raises an eyebrow, and Sephiroth remembers the most important rule.

“Our session is over” he is told “Use the hotel room at your leisure, and make sure to check out on time tomorrow. Take care”

And just like that the door closes, and the partner is gone.

Sephiroth takes his time, cleaning himself up and taking their tools in hand unsurely before putting them down again and deciding to let the hotel staff deal with them. They’ll know how to handle them better than he does, anyway.

It’s only when he crawls under the covers and closes his eyes that he realizes that maybe, just maybe, the last few words of his partner meant more than just a simple goodbye until the next time.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably not how D/s works. Sorry for that. This was just what happened when I sat down and wrote instead of thinking whether or not to write.
> 
> Also, since it might be a bit unclear what the point of this ‘arrangement’ is (due to my 'writing style' being vague as fuck): Those two meet up and Sephiroth gets (consensually) tortured for a bit. And it gets him hot because he’s a hopeless little masochist. There is not normally any sexual component to their meetings, except for Sephiroth’s arousal.


End file.
